the winds hold my soul
by variable 4
Summary: Tristan thinks often of his wife. He thinks about his child. And then he thinks about how much he hates Rome. Solias thinks often of her mother. She daydreams about her father. And she never stops thinking about how much she hates Rome. -or- Tristan's thirteen year old daughter comes to Britain with her Roman master.


Solias stood quietly behind the centurion, eyes resolutely focused on the growing puddle of water surrounding her feet. Standing completely still and refusing to have attention drawn to herself, the girl knew that a slip up on her part here would lead to a harsh reprimand afterward, in private. Keeping her eyes from wandering, however, was difficult. Her nature was to be curious, to observe, study, and understand that which interested her. And these men most definitely interested her.

"Then we have an agreement." Solias had become accustomed to reading the tone and rhythm of her commander's voice. What had initially been a helpful skill of survival was now mere habit, one that was easily transferable onto others. As a result, she understood that the Roman-Briton was less than pleased.

"Indeed, we shall leave at first light on the morrow." Her centurion was not pleased either.

They'd traveled from Rome with a centuria of men, the soldiers to be left with Britain's primary fortress while Centurion Atrox moved on to command a port city to the south. The journey from Rome had been long and draining, and Atrox was in a foul mood. They would leave for the southern city the following day, but the centurion refused to let arrangements be made easily. He would have the knights escort him to the port city, and remain there until town folk and the present soldiers accepted this command. Arthur and the knights did not wish to baby sit for so long, nor have all of them go south. Atrox was headstrong and self-entitled, refusing compromise. He was forced to when some knights began snarling.

All seven would go escort, the seven would remain two days before leaving the port.

"Knights, be ready for the journey by dawn. That is all today."

"Nothus." Her head lifted, willing herself to look only at Atrox and not the knights around the table. "Care for my horse. I do not wish to see you until morning."

"Yes, sir." Quickly recognizing her dismissal, Solias could only gaze at the Sarmatian knights from the sides of her vision, the experience ending the moment she faced the door and exited.

There were so few of them left. Twelve years of fighting had whittled down their numbers to a mere six, plus their commander. Solias wandered about the fort, trying to remember where the stables were. While she knew it would be smartest to go fulfil her task as swiftly as possible, she doubted the centurion would check its completion before the coming day. Her mind buzzed with the sight of the knights, and she allowed herself the indulgence of taking her time.

She'd been in their presence, heard them speak, and understood that these were no longer the stolen children of her homeland. They were the legacy of the warriors whose treaty of decades prior had condemned their descendants to a cruel life of servitude and death. Boys and young men, taken before their lives could truly begin. Solias thought it sad, and remembered also those who remained as the horses and their riders had ridden off as specks on the horizon. The siblings and mothers who had wept, the fathers who clenched their fists and ground their teeth. All of them knowing that it was unlikely to ever see those boys again. Not even their bodies would be returned to them. There was nothing they could do.

Solias remembered her mother, years after the Romans had taken the boys. The small girl had returned to their tent, excited after a day's worth of sparring and fishing, only to find her mother collapsed on the floor. She had been crying, silently, and holding a long curved knife. The knife was cradled with tender hands, its twin resting neatly on the soft leather wrapping that would hold the pair together. Solias would never be able to be rid of the memory, she would never want that.

The fort was lively, shops offering a variety of trinkets and wares, taverns offering food, liquid comfort, and sometimes a bed for the night. Solias noted that despite many differences, the common people of both Rome and Britain were similar.

. . .

Finding the stables was harder than it should have been, and it felt as though she'd been searching for hours. When she finally did manage the task of locating the stables, Solias was disappointed that there were people within and not simply horses.

She recognized them as Sarmatian knights, however, which was far better than a Roman soldier as she might have expected. Though she wanted to talk with them, learn about them, learn their names, she knew her place as Centurion Atrox's servant and went directly to the centurion's stallion after a quick bow to the knights. Solias removed several items from a sack, each of which would be needed for the horse. She began with feeding the beast a carrot.

"So why're you the centurion's dog? Have you even ten years, boy?" It was the knight with blond, messy hair that asked.

"He saved me when Mongols attacked my village. He thought it might be amusing to see a lowly being, like I, try to fill the role of a proper attendant. I owe him my life and shall be eternally indebted to him." In a softer, more bitter tone she added, "My life is his."

"Heavy words, from a youngling."

"As if Galahad was much better at that age," the other knight commented, sheathing his swords, and the blond one laughed.

After a moment's hesitation, Solias asked, "Galahad?"

"Another knight, though more pessimist pup than anything." Solias nodded, reaching for a different brush to untangle the knots in the stallion's mane. "I take it you shall be traveling with the centurion to the port city?"

Solias again inclined her head. There would be no escape from her centurion.

. . .

Gawain and Lancelot, names she had learned as they'd walked to the courtyard, invited her to train with them once she finished with the centurion's horse.

"Might as well try to toughen you up," Lancelot had smirked, grabbing her wrist and feeling the thin arm connected to it. The gesture was threatening.

The knights' compound was farther from the stables than Solias thought it should be. She gave voice to this thought.

"A guard fell asleep on duty some weeks back and managed to knock over a torch. Horses got out fine but the structured burned right to the ground. It's being rebuilt as we speak, should even be done soon," Gawain explained.

"Damn lazy Roman," Lancelot sneered, and then looked to Solias dressed in distinctly Roman attire. "Care to explain that particular characteristic of your people?"

Solias glared, feeling fire flash through her. "I am no Roman."

She quickened her steps, hearing the sounds of metal against metal and deciding that the source was likely the location of the training ground. Once there, she found three more knights, two of whom were sparring, the third standing to the side. The courtyard was barren, dirt and small, yellowed patches of grass growing sporadically. Solias saw no entrance to an armory and wondered if it was simply out of sight or this was a training court specifically for the Sarmatians.

They were formidable fighters, the large one with the scarred face and the younger one. Each moved swiftly and with precision, adjusting and readjusting to counter the other.

The third knight did not look at her and did not acknowledge her presence, yet Solias felt that she was being carefully scrutinized. In return, she openly examined him, her curiosity getting the better of her this time. There were sections of his hair in plaits, the rest of it dark and ending not far past his ears. His eyes were dark and unreadable, hidden in part by the hair falling over his forehead. High cheekbones marked with tattoos, a curved nose, scratchy facial hair, and a chilled demeanor.

Was this him?

"The Roman boy wants to fight," Lancelot shouted as he and Gawain stepped into the area. She could no longer hear the clashing of swords, and it seemed everyone was congregating toward Solias and this knight. Solias ceased her staring, and she felt the weight and focus of the knight's gaze lessen. Again, she glared at Lancelot, taking a step toward him.

"Fight me."

"Oh, I've angered the kitten," Lancelot's smile was taunting. She hated that he'd managed to rile her. "Atrox has trained you?" Solias nodded. "What weapons do you learn?"

"Sword and dagger, together." She saw a couple eyebrows raised, but did not react and took the sword Galahad offered and the dagger from Gawain. Both felt too heavy, and she reprocessed her decision to fight a trained knight.

Lancelot and Solias faced each other in the centre of the court. Both held a weapon in each hand, and both stared at the another with dislike.

Solias saw the shift of his weight before knight lunged forward, and she caught the strike with the cross of her sword and dagger, the impact of it jarring her arms and she stepped back to dodge his coming strike for her head.

She was smaller in size and had far less strength, this she knew. Solias believed she could win.

Every blow was deflected with her sword and dagger, avoiding a hit to her body. The hand holding the dagger switched from an overhand grip to an underhand grip fluidly, stabbing and slashing while pushing away Lancelot's attacks. She could see the smugness in the knight's eye, the certainty that he would win, that he knew he simply had to beat her down to claim his victory.

Just as the next hit was meant to land, Solias fell to her right, dropping into a roll and righting herself in a crouch. Lancelot staggered forward a step and Solias took the moment of imbalance to burst up, knock her sword into his, and parry the other sword with the dagger. Her body continued its path forward, and with that momentum she planted a heavy kick to Lancelot's gut and allowed herself a second of satisfaction at the flash of surprise that came over his face.

The next thing she knew was the ground rushing toward her and then the dirt scratching against her cheek as she sprawled ungracefully in defeat. Breathing heavy, she twisted to look behind her. Lancelot held her ankle in his hand, an irritating smirk stretching his lips.


End file.
